Family
by HowlWind
Summary: **VAGUE SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3** Daryl leaves with Merle, but it turns out to be the worst possible decision. Now he must fight to survive and make it back to his true family- Rick and the others.
1. Chapter 1

Daryl had hoped that Merle had changed since he'd last seen him. That maybe having to cut off his own hand was a humbling experience, and he had a new found appreciation for the preciousness of life.

God knew Daryl had done his fair share of changing in the long months since civilization fell.

That wasn't the case at all, though. If anything, Merle had become more twisted since they lost him on the roof. The group he'd fallen in with encouraged his sadistic side, let him torture people- including Glenn. That was the part that stung the most. Merle had brutalized someone that Daryl now considered family.

Leaving Rick and the others hadn't felt right at all, but Merle was his blood. And after what went down in Woodbury, he was the only person his big brother could rely on. It was only with great reluctance that he left his group on the road and followed his brother into the woods. Followed him blindly, just like when they were with kids. Blood was blood, after all.

But what happened on the bridge… That was Daryl's breaking point.

"What's happened to you, man?" Merle asked, incredulously. "You a fuckin' softie now?"

"There was a _baby_."

" You piece of shit. Holding a crossbow to your own brother's head. I don't even know you anymore."

"Yeah, you know what? You don't. You really fucking don't, Merle." Daryl spit on the ground between them. "This was a mistake. I'm going back to the prison, where I belong. With my family."

Merle lashed out suddenly with his prosthetic. It connected solidly with the side of Daryl's face, splitting his cheek wide open and knocking him to the ground. Daryl rolled over to his side groaning, spitting out blood as he struggled to catch his breath. He brought a hand to his face and felt the blood flow over his hand.

"After all I done for you, you try to leave me again?" Merle kicked his little brother in the stomach, causing Daryl to retch. "Bad enough your sheriff boyfriend left me to die on a roof, made me cut off my own goddamn hand to survive. They treat dogs better than that. Shit.** I'm** your family, boy." He kicked him in the ribs, the legs, the abdomen. Again and again and again, caught up in a blind rage. Daryl desperately curled into a ball on the ground.

"You try running back home after this you little shit. Try running back to them, see what they say."

He grabbed Daryl's hair and hauled his head up. Daryl was still stunned from the initial blow to the skull. He tried to bring his hands up to protect his head, but Merle brought his metal arm down hard, connecting with Daryl's left wrist. It broke with a snap. The older man backhanded Daryl again, cracking his temple with enough force to knock him out. Finally, he stepped back.

"That's what you get, shithead. That's what you fucking get. Fuck you and your new family. You were always the weak one anyway." Merle spit on his brother's prone form, before grabbing his pack and heading off deeper into the woods.


	2. Chapter 2

Daryl lay bleeding on the forest floor, drifting in and out of consciousness. Whenever he surfaced, it was only to meet a terrible pain that overwhelmed him and forced him back down into the darkness.

His sleep was haunted by fever dreams. Vague images floating through the black: his father raising the belt. The smoke rising off the rubble of their house, and the sheet covering his mother's (strangely small) remains. Merle yelling, Merle leaving, Merle coming back again. The flash of the firebombs dropping on Atlanta, the feel of heat on his face. The faces of his friends- Rick, Carol, Glenn, Maggie... Sophia…

_Sophia…_

Hours passed before he was able to wake up fully. He rolled over and promptly vomited, skull throbbing and vision filled with stars. He heaved again and again until his stomach was emptied. His chest burned, the straining of his muscles aggravating his battered ribs.

"…help…"

No one responded. He was alone.

_I'm going to die here. I'm going to die alone and no one will ever know what happened to me._

That thought was enough to get him to try sitting up. His first few attempts were futile- every time he tried, his head swam and he collapsed again. Finally he was able to grab onto a tree and get enough leverage to pull himself partway up. He leaned back against it, breathing like he'd just finished running a marathon. The roughness of the bark on his bare skin helped him focus. He rested his cheek against the coolness of the tree, focusing on collecting himself, slowing his breath.

_Gotta move. Gotta find help._

It seemed like divine intervention that he hadn't been found by a walker yet, but Daryl wasn't going to push his luck any further. He regarded his wrist for a moment, noting the bruising and swelling before pulling at his shirt. The material was worn and tore easily. Grabbing at the sticks lying on the ground next to him, he fashioned a splint from the cloth and wood. It was messy, but it would do until- _if _– he could make it back to the prison.

_One step at a time._

He struggled to his feet, and held onto the tree until he was sure he could stand on his own. Each breath he took burned. Broken ribs, broken wrist. Split head. Shit, he was in bad shape.

_Common Dixon. Move your ass, ain't no one else gonna do it for you._

After a long moment taking in his surroundings, he regained his sense of direction. It would be a long haul, but at least he knew which way the prison was. Now it was a matter of getting there before the dead got him. Merle had left his crossbow for some reason, but there were only two bolts left. Daryl gingerly leaned down and grabbed it out of the dirt with his (blessedly) uninjured right hand.

At least he had one thing going for him.


	3. Chapter 3

_One foot in front of the other. One step at a time. _

It was agony.

He'd been tested before, his body bruised and battered, but he'd never felt so utterly broken. Merle beating him and leaving him for dead- _leaving him for walker bait-_ had been the ultimate betrayal. And over what? Over him having the chance to better himself, to build something worth living for in this chaotic world?

_Fuck him_.

Although his progress was painfully slow, it was steady. The woods were quiet, and here there wasn't a lot of underbrush to fight through. Walkers weren't known to be the stealthiest of creatures, and he figured he'd hear any before he saw them. It wasn't the dead that took him down this time, though.

Daryl's eye was partially swollen shut from the damage done to his cheek, so he didn't see the branch in time to duck. It collided with his forehead. Fireworks sparked to life in his skull, and he swayed on his feet. His legs gave out and he collapsed, knees hitting the dirt, clutching his head in his one good hand. He felt like crying. It wasn't fair. This was just too much- wouldn't it be easier to just lie back down, fall asleep? Just gonna take a short nap…

"_Daryl."_

His head jerked up.

"_Daryl, you need to get up."_

But he was alone in the woods.

A cool breeze blew over him, foliage overhead gently rustling as it passed. Daryl knelt for a moment longer before pushing himself back to a standing position. He held his crossbow close. This wasn't the time for a pity party- _but it would be so easy to just rest, just stop and rest just for a moment-_ not while he was so vulnerable. He staggered forward again.

Daryl didn't even have the luxury of being able to use a walking stick. Not if he wanted to keep his crossbow ready. So he made a game of things to help pass the time and keep his mind occupied. He'd look ahead about 40 yards and identify an obstacle; a rock, a pinecone, the knot of a tree- and when he reached that particular landmark, he'd allow himself to rest on his feet for a minute. It gave him something to look forward to. He continued this way for some time before the voice stopped him again.

"_Daryl. Listen."_

So he cocked his head, and listened. He heard the scuffling, the uncertain progress through a bed of leaves, and readied his crossbow. Taking deep breaths to steady himself, he braced himself against a tree to support his weakened body- he was ready when the walker appeared. A quick depression of the trigger, and his bolt flew true. It hit the corpse right between the eyes, and dropped it down to the ground. Loading his second bolt, he waited. Five minutes. Ten.

It was quiet again.

Putting one foot to the walker's throat, he yanked the bolt out and wiped it quickly in the dirt. This wasn't that bad, then. He could do it. Especially with the warning he'd received from that bodiless voice. Though that came with its own set of worries, too. Worries that his head had been hit hard enough to knock something vital loose, because if he was honest with himself, he knew exactly who that voice belonged to. And he knew it was crazy, because the person that voice belonged to was long dead.

It was Sophia, guiding him safely home.

_One foot in front of the other. One step at a time. _


End file.
